


The Winter Moon Shines over Nemeth

by woodworms_before_breakfast



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, Episode: s04e11 The Hunter's Heart, Episode: s05e04 Another's Sorrow, F/M, Gwen (mentioned) - Freeform, Merlin's Magic Revealed (Merlin), but only partially
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:55:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29357589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/woodworms_before_breakfast/pseuds/woodworms_before_breakfast
Summary: The personal musings of an old and very wise king as he watches his daughter fall in love with the wrong man, or else the perfect man
Relationships: Merlin/Mithian (Merlin)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 61
Collections: Merlin Bingo





	The Winter Moon Shines over Nemeth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [merlin_rabbit_hole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merlin_rabbit_hole/gifts).



> Prompt: Rodor
> 
> gifting this to merlin_rabbit_hole because I know you love Mithian :))

She reminded him of her mother. Her hickory-brown locks were tucked beneath a white veil, a slim body wrapped in furs and two delicate hands slipped into her gloves. Perched upon her snow-white horse, she was every ounce the stately queen that her mother had been. She was a bride without a groom.

The retinue flanking her was grim and grey, drifting aimlessly without her to lead them and lend them her beauty. Every face was solemn with the dread of leaving their princess behind for another kingdom to worship. Rodor may be the King of Nemeth, but Mithian was, beyond doubt, their one true leader.

He could not envy his daughter, much as a white-tailed deer pruning its milky fur could not envy the moon for its bright silver. There was an ethereal glow about her, a halo of sorts, that cast her in divinity beyond the sublime but simple gold of the crown on Rodor’s head.

“I wish you the best, my dear,” he said, covering the gloved palm that rested on her thigh. “I know all will go well, because all goes well with you.”

“Thank you, Father.” Her smile was like the clatter of pearls on a silver platter, ornate and delicate and beautiful. Very precise, as she had been raised to smile.

Perhaps it was the smoothness of her cheeks, the absence of two bean-shaped dimples by the corners of her mouth. He could see that her smile was that of a diplomat, and not a bride. In a way, she _was_ only an envoy, no matter how he dressed up the words and the clothes, no matter how he tried to convince himself that his daughter was being wedded and not sold.

Arthur Pendragon would have to prove himself worthy of her. Falling short would force Rodor to draw a sword and defend his daughter’s honor, which would not end well for either of them.

_If Iphiora were here_ , he thought sadly as the horses cantered away down the dirt path, _she would have thought of a way around marriage_. He thought for a moment, and chuckled. _Or she would have given Arthur Pendragon a piece of her mind before giving him our daughter’s hand_.

He stared at the last trace of Mithian between the trees. The wind ruffled his hair and caressed his cheek, as Iphiora used to.

* * *

“There is something to fear here,” he said thoughtfully, taking a sip of the sharp wine. “It is indeed admirable that Pendragon follows his heart, as a man should. But he is a king, before he is a man, and to surrender the whole of Gedref for the love of a woman...”

He trailed off, and Mithian was silent. Something struck him in his chest, a stab of guilt. He would never say such a thing if he thought she had feelings for Pendragon, but she had been so indifferent and cheerful, he hadn’t realized that perhaps she did, in fact, lo-

“I don’t love him, Father.” Her lips were pressed together in amusement. “I do not mind that he loves Guinevere. Indeed, it makes me happy, to see that such love exists.”

Rodor sighed. “Your wisdom, Mithian. Every time it shows, I ache for your mother ever more.” He paused. “But I am still uneasy. Uther pressed him too hard, confined him for twenty years and some. Now that he is, in a way, free to do as he pleases, I fear he will listen too much to his heart and forget the importance of politics. I have seen that Arthur Pendragon will do anything to help those he cares for. His manservant, for one, I believe.”

Mithian stiffened behind him. “Merlin? Why do you believe so, Father?”

“I have heard the stories.” He shrugged. “It is not often that a king will send his best and strongest knights on frenzied patrols for days on end, for the sake of a mere servant.”

“He is more than-” She paused and inhaled sharply. “Arthur finds him worthy of it, and I quite agree. He is a very good servant.”

Rodor ran his fingers over his white-peppered beard. “Is it true, what they say? That his servant accompanied him on his quest for the Trident of the Fisher King?”

“Yes, Father.” Her voice was weary, and he stifled a chuckle.

“His _solo_ quest, I believe?”

A resigned silence. “Yes, Father.”

He tried to catch her eye, hoping to throw her a wink and draw the laugh that always slipped from her mouth whenever he was being lewd. But she did not respond to his jests nor his cocked head.

It would surprise and worry him, later, to realize how long it took for him to notice her troubled frown. “What is it, Mithian?”

She quirked her lips in a pained smile. “Nothing, Father. I am tired, from my trip.”

He cast a longing glance out the window. Winter in Nemeth was marvelous, a beauty that surpassed the verdant mountain ranges of Essetir and the sharp, rocky slopes of Cornwall. It seemed to him that the world split in two, with dreary winter storms raging in the half below and summer remaining blissfully untouched in the half above. The land stretched cold and grey as far as the eye could see, but the sky was the color of cornflowers from east to west. Snow dusted the earth like sugar, only to be licked away by the sun’s scorching tongue.

Such weather reminded him of Iphiora, who would never let such a day slip by without, at the very least, a quick breakfast in the woods. But his strength was leaving him, and if he was to keep in good health, he would have to settle for the warm breeze from the open windows. _For Mithian’s sake_ , he thought contentedly.

* * *

Arthur Pendragon was a good man. Rodor could be sure of that, as he watched the young king come to Mithian’s rescue, even after her betrayal, albeit she had no other option. What he could also be sure of, was that Arthur’s manservant — _Merlin_ — was an even better man.

He would not say why, because to do so would be to sentence Merlin to death. But he had witnessed what he should never have seen, and he had heard what should never have reached his ears: _Ic þe bebiede þæt þu abifest nu_. Words that rolled off a young, ancient tongue and defied the laws of reason as much as it defied the laws of the land. The first thought that crossed Rodor’s mind was, _Mithian knows_. He did not know why he thought this, but it was as certain to him as the reflection of a deer in a pond.

King Arthur’s manservant. Arthur’s best friend.

It took no more than three minutes afterwards, for Rodor to decide that he would take Merlin’s secret with him until he was himself buried in such a tomb as they had been trapped in. His hair may have been the color of the moon, his face withered and shrunken, but his mind was still sharp enough to see Merlin’s devotion — his courage, and his unconditional loyalty to Camelot.

There were often times where Rodor questioned the legacy of Uther Pendragon. Nemeth had always been impartial to sorcery, and the ban had only been placed to appease their most powerful ally. Iphiora had not approved, but even she could not defy the will of Uther.

Hope was flickering, now. It was fleeting and weak, but he could grasp it in the palm of his wrinkled, age-bruised hand. And he began to realize that this small flame, which the whole of Albion would have to hold onto for all of their sakes, was burning not just within Uther’s son, but in the man that stood by his side through rain and fire. Their eyes, too: so similar in their striking blue, a color that shone with something more than slanting sunlight — something in their spirit.

The door whistled gently. “Father.”

He felt her pale, velvet-smooth hand on his arm, the hickory-brown hair muddied with dust and grime. Her caramel eyes were fixed on his, sweet yet hesitant. There was a question there, a flame that she had kindled despite the doubt that it would ever burn.

“Yes, Mithian.” He inclined his head, barely a hair’s breadth, but she saw. She understood, and her smile was like the stars.

* * *

They were married in winter, and the snows of Nemeth clung to her fur cloak and gown as she floated down the aisle, leaving the barest trace of a footprint with every step. Arthur and his queen stood at the very front, chuckling to themselves and whispering at their blushing friend with cupped hands.

Rodor was in a dream. He had always imagined that, should he live to give her away, he would walk down the aisle with an iron-clad grip on her arm, unwilling to let her go. He would have to keep his fingers firm and strong around her so that she would not float away.

But as he passed by the tearful eyes and powdered trees, he never once tightened his hold on her arm. She was steady and sure, not a hint of doubt in her steps but not hasty, either. He thought back to a year or so ago, when he had envisioned her as a bride without a groom. _An ethereal glow about her_. Perhaps she was magic as well. He laughed at that, and she turned to smile questioningly at him.

The year had not been like previous years, where the months passed by in weeks, and weeks rolled by in days. Instead, it had flown as time had never flown in Nemeth since Iphiora’s death. Merlin had taken Mithian’s poignant beauty, and poured joy into it.

He had watched them learn each other. In touch or in words, through smiles and tears and flicks of the wrist. She would laugh, like bells on a wreath, every time gold flashed across his sea-blue eyes. His eyes would fold into themselves like crescent moons as she laughed; he would wind his fingers into hers, and as they walked down the streets of the towns, the people would wonder at the way that their hands fit together like two rivers winding and entwined.

Rodor would give them the world to rule if he could, because he knew they would rule it better than anyone ever could. But Nemeth, at least, would prosper under their silver touch, and that was enough.

He smiled at this as he lifted her hand and raised her onto the altar, where Merlin waited. Rodor’s fingers began to untangle from hers, and as the other hand lowered to take her from him, there was not even a shadow of doubt in the old king’s heart that his kingdom, and his daughter, would rest in the safest, purest, most powerful hands that Albion had ever known.


End file.
